Haha, Robbed Again

Ma Zhaodi thought he was already used to life in Gotham.

He had been working in Gotham for a full week, and had seen shootouts, criminals, gangsters, and a superhero, as well as a future supervillain. He'd seen plenty of the poor downtrodden and the wealthy elite, and he'd even gotten used to falling asleep every night staring at the gargoyles that looked like they were hanging upside down.

Come on, the way they were positioned really looked like a hypnotist putting someone under.

Honestly, aside from his face attracting a few perverted clients, he felt like he had almost adapted to the city, or at least to its madness.

He was wrong.

This day, he finished work as usual and walked through the alleyways with his wheelchair. But before he could even go upstairs, a man's voice suddenly reached his ears.

"Hey, man, give me your wheelchair."

"?"

Ma Zhaodi, who had been thinking about going home, froze for a few seconds.

It wasn't that he hadn't seen robbers before; robbers were common in the East End. But usually, when people robbed others, their methods and goals were pretty much the same. This guy, however, seemed to have a rather unique approach to robbery.

"Uh. Let me confirm." Ma Zhaodi cautiously pointed to the wheelchair in his hands. "You want to rob my wheelchair?"

The robber, holding a gun, sneered triumphantly. "Yeah, that's right! Give it to me! I know you! Your name is all over the East End and the Audisburg District. Every night, some Ghost Fire guy is speeding down the road! I know what you use to go so fast every day, I know it's a treasure!"

Ma Zhaodi was a little confused. "Forgive me for saying so, but you could also go fast by robbing a car. Why are you so fixated on my wheelchair?"

The "genius" paused for a few seconds, his expression shifting from a grimace to thought, and then from thought to confusion.

It was quite amusing.

"Wh-whatever!" he stammered. "Give me your wheelchair!"

"From my personal perspective, I'd advise that this wheelchair might be quite dangerous for the average person."

"Bang!"

"I said! Give it to me, damn it!"

Ma Zhaodi's mouth twitched as he looked at the wall beside him. The bullet had whizzed past, leaving a bullet hole in the wall, just inches from his head.

This was the tenth time he had encountered a shooting in Gotham this week.

To be honest, it was like sensitivity training. He was genuinely nervous, but after so many times, he was starting to become a little numb. Ma Zhaodi had gone from being stunned, to being anxious, and now he was forcing himself to stay calm. He had developed some resistance.

"Here, take it. Be my guest." Under the muzzle of the gun, he immediately stopped talking, lest the impatient robber shoot him in the head.

This wasn't him chickening out. After all, every previous time, he hadn't faced the gun directly but had hidden in corners or lurked in the shadows. A direct confrontation like this, facing the muzzle of a loaded gun face-to-face, was far more dangerous than anything before.

"And your money and clothes, give it all to me!"

"You can have the money, but at least leave me my clothes, right?"

"Shut the hell up! Hurry up and take them off!"

This is too much!

Ma Zhaodi's anger flared up. He quickly took off his jacket, leaving him in just a shirt and pants. Finally, he took out his driver's license from his jacket and removed his SIM card from his phone.

"Alright, alright, I only have two pieces of clothing left. Take my money and get lost."

"And your gun..."

"Bang."

A sudden gunshot interrupted the robbery. A tall, burly man walked up to them, holding a gun, and spat on the ground.

"That's my damn gun, you son of a bitch."

The robber groaned in pain, clutching his hand. The burly man's shot had shattered the gun in his hand and left a bloody hole in his palm.

"Get lost!"

Seeing the burly man's fierce gaze, the robber immediately lost any thought of resistance. He awkwardly grabbed his jacket, quickly got into the wheelchair, and didn't dare reach for Ma Zhaodi's wallet or phone. Instead, he fumbled with the buttons on the wheelchair and quickly disappeared around the street corner.

"He's actually quite talented at driving a wheelchair, but I still don't recommend him speeding to..."

"Give me my damn gun back," the burly man interrupted Ma Zhaodi's rambling. "Stop beating around the bush. If you don't have the guts to use it, don't keep it."

"It's just a regular Beretta, okay? It hasn't been modified at all," Ma Zhaodi protested as he obediently handed the gun over. "You're talking about it like it's some kind of ultimate weapon."

"Shut up." He holstered his revolver and the well-used Beretta at his waist but didn't ask about the newer Colt. Instead, he spat at Ma Zhaodi's feet. "I've been waiting for Old Jack for a week, and you, you coward, never showed up. You're just like the lunatics at Arkham Asylum, riding around the streets in some damn wheelchair."

"Chicken."

Damn it!

Ma Zhaodi angrily put his jacket back on, stuffed his driver's license and phone back into his pocket, and then turned to head upstairs.

He was angry, of course, but there was no need to stoop to the level of such a brute. Being insulted a couple of times wouldn't cost him anything.

What if he insulted back and actually lost something? The last time Drake had insulted him, he'd gotten really heated.

Clinton glanced at him disdainfully but didn't stop him. Instead, he turned and left.

"Damn Gotham, everyone's a coward."

"Damn Gotham, everyone's an idiot, and a lunatic."

Ma Zhaodi cursed indignantly at Drake. "I was just trying to ride my wheelchair home and I got targeted! They even came at me with a gun! Damn it, can a wheelchair really go faster than a car!"

"Based on the time you got home from work, your wheelchair speed yesterday already surpassed ninety percent of Gotham's crazy drivers," Drake said, raising his wrist expressionlessly to check his watch. "It's ten-fourteen now. You went upstairs at ten-thirteen. Assuming being mugged downstairs took you three minutes, then you only took ten minutes to get home."

"Ah, that's not quite right," Ma Zhaodi chuckled sheepishly. "I got home in nine minutes."

"What exactly are you so proud of?"

Drake shook his head. "Your speed has increased by a full quarter. If this keeps up, I'm genuinely worried I'll see a headline one day about an 'Overspeed Ghost Fire Wheelchair' rear-ending a supercar and getting crushed like a cookie."

"Doesn't matter, it got mugged anyway," Ma Zhaodi said glumly, eating the food left for him on the table. "What a shame about the wheelchair I spent so much effort modifying. It could go up to 160 at its top speed."

Plus five hundred points for Advanced Wheelchair Driving Mastery.

Meanwhile, on the quiet streets of the East End late at night, a seven-colored stream of light shot past with a scream.

"Stop—you wheelchair!"

Bang!

The next day, Ma Zhaodi left for work early. Drake, meanwhile, was eating breakfast while reading the Gotham Daily. Suddenly, a headline in the newspaper caught his eye.

"Gotham Urban Legend 'Overspeed Ghost Fire Wheelchair' Rear-Ends Wayne Executive; Wheelchair Driver Currently Undergoing Stitching and Grafting."

"Pfft!"